


'cause we are alive here in death valley

by sungyeowl



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt, a verse from fob's song again i'm not even sorry, writing this gave me emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:44:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungyeowl/pseuds/sungyeowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>His breathing is ragged and shaky, more like uneven gasps than inhales and exhales; his head dips lower because he can’t look at himself, not like that. He’s been there – in the glade, for three years, he’s been through so much – they all have – there should be no more space, no need for tears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'cause we are alive here in death valley

**Author's Note:**

> anon on tumblr [asked](http://annatries.tumblr.com/post/108481669504/do-you-think-you-can-do-a-minewt-fic-after-they): "Do you think you can do a Minewt fic after they are "rescued" from the Maze? And Newt is trying really hard to be strong for everybody, but then he just breaks down because of all the friends he'd lost, and Minho comforts him? Thanks!!! <3"
> 
> so here it goes! : D  
> i haven't written angst in some time, i hope it's believable????

 

They don’t talk when the pizza is served.

There are only the sounds of quick and (too) fast swallowing and of the accidental, metallic clicks of cutlery form people who actually _use cutlery to eat the pizza_ (which Minho didn’t miss to comment on earlier, trying to be funny and failing miserably), no more than that.

Newt feels drained and strained – he gets himself busy pushing the fluffy dough into his mouth, impatiently and messily, stripes of thoughts of _where did I eat this before, who was I with when I was eating this, did the cheese always taste so good_ swirling in his head. He allows himself to sink into them, just this once; usually, he tries not to think about his past life, the process being too frustrating and – _painful_. But this time… this time it’s just easier, and somehow – safer? that way. The certainty is there, present and looming – he’s not yet ready to think about what happened in the span of those few last hours.

Newt has to stop himself from jumping in to help when bathroom utensils are given. He strolls over, trying to keep his cool and acting indifferent while he passes shower gels, toothbrushes and towels around, hoping to get himself busy again.

His eagerness, though, bites him in the arse, because people – now fed and granted with the prospect of a shower and a fresh change of clothes – seem to be building the courage to think things over. And talk about it, too.

The room fills with a constant murmur of hushed conversations while the gladers wait for their turn to get in the shower. Newt’s head snaps around, instinctively and unconsciously searching for a secluded spot – but there’s none and soon enough two boys are at his side, talking and asking questions and assuming and predicting and pretty much radiating the need to be reassured by the second-in-command.

So Newt yields – because that’s what he does and because that’s what his friends need, and he’s not the one (and never will be) to forbid them the right to reassurance and the tiniest bit of hope – and talks to them, talks about what happened with cool and rationality, tries to give them hope without lying to them or letting them hope _too_ much at the same time. And it doesn’t work for him, it’s painful  and it’s too much and it’s too soon (and it’s what Alby would be doing if he wasn’t- but he is and the thought almost makes Newt vomit), but he walks around, comforting people and talking in a quiet and confident voice, sending the gladers to the bathroom and telling them to go and rest, and for now not dwell on what happened.

He’s one of the last ones to enter the bathroom and clean himself up, but when Newt enters the dormitory again, the atmosphere there is overridden with sleepiness and silence. The blonde’s sure not many are asleep, but no one talks – or tries to – and that’s good.

It’s also probably just enough for Newt to calm down, he muses as he climbs up on the bed above Frypan’s and smashes his face into the pillow, suddenly feeling overpowered by exhaustion.

 

It’s not enough and it _never_ will be enough, Newt finds out a few hours later when he wakes up with a start, a shuddering gasp escaping his lips, face streaked with tears. Nothing will ever, ever ease the pain – _that_ pain – caused by the deaths of friends; of Chuck and Alby, Clint, Zart and Jeff, and all of the other, and no pizza and no rescue will ever make it up to them – to _him_.

His chest aches, as if there was a knot squeezing tight, around it and inside of it, and it takes the greatest effort for Newt not to pant out loud when he slides down to the floor, trying not to wake anyone up. Everyone is asleep, though, soft (and not so soft, in Minho’s case) echoing in the spacious room but Newt stills tries to move to the bathroom as fast and as quiet as possible.

There’s only enough strength for Newt to move towards one of the sinks after he pushes the door closed behind himself; his knuckles go white as he grips at the edge of the porcelain bowl, leaning over the sink.

He observes himself going pale, blood draining out of his face in the old, tarnished mirror – and then there are tears, new ones, sliding down his cheeks and disappearing under the curve of his jaw, dropping to the collar of the stupid blue pyjamas.

 Newt is crying and he cannot force himself not to.  

His breathing is ragged and shaky, more like uneven gasps than inhales and exhales; his head dips lower because he can’t look at himself, not like that. He’s been there – in the glade, for three years, he’s been through so much – they all have – there should be no more space, no need for tears.

When the first, loud sob rips its way out of his throat Newt jerks abruptly, bringing his hands up to cover his face – his mouth. He wobbles, stupidly, losing balance, but there’s nothing he can do to stop the uncontrollable shaking that takes over his body, because they’re all dead, they’re all fucking _dead,_ while he’s here, weeping, because _he_ is alive. And even if Newt has fought the need, _the pull,_ that made him want to end his life months before, even if he was done with suicidal thoughts, there’s nothing he wants more now than to exchange his life for the one of his friends’.

The, muffled now, sobbing doesn’t stop; Newt just stands there, in the middle of the bathroom, choking on dry gasps and rubbing furiously at his face to swipe the remaining tears away, pathetically trying to calm himself down so he can go back to bed.

It’s slow and agonizing and takes a hundreds and hundreds of years before Newt finally trusts himself not to make a sound and accidentally wake any of the gladers. The blonde moves back to the sink and splashes ice-cold water onto his face, avoiding looking into the mirror since he’s sure he looks probably as bad as he feels and, _no thanks_ , he doesn’t need that now.

He’s ready to enter the room so he turns around, quite confidently. The confidence – or, the feeling of safety that he won’t randomly break down in the middle of the dormitory – vanishes as soon as Newt notices that he’s not alone in the bathroom.

There’s Minho, looking at him with an unreadable expression, leaning on the closed door.

“How long have ya been standing here?” Newt manages to croak out, throat clenched painfully and the traitorous trembling creeping back into him, making his tightened fists shiver slightly at his sides.

 _No, no, no, no_ , he thinks feverously, he can’t have anyone- he can’t have Minho watching him wallow in self-pity, he can’t have him watching Newt fall apart, _not again_ , not when he’s supposed to be strong for his friends. For Thomas, for Minho, for Winston, for everyone, Newt’s the one supposed to be collected and rational, and most definitely not as shaken as he is now.

Minho’s eyes are scrutinizing and somehow furious. The man opens his mouth as if to say something, but then decides otherwise - his movements are quick and kind of unpredictable when he takes a few steps closer, finality and certainty surrounding him like a weirdly consoling halo, as he reaches out and crushes Newt firmly to himself.

Minho’s grip around Newt’s shoulders is tight, almost painful. He’s warm and doesn’t say a thing, just clutching to the blonde boy – and Newt doesn’t remember when – and if ever, he was last held like that. It was probably after his jump, when he woke up in the Homestead and Minho was there, angry and upset and furious, and he threw a chair at Newt (though missing by his bed by solid one and a half meters) but then sat by his side and hugged him for the rest of the night.

The memory is the last straw and Newt doesn’t have more strength to keep it in, and he breaks down again, crying silently and crumpling into himself somehow, so Minho is towering over him even if he’s actually shorter.

They don’t move, gripping at each other tightly and when Minho curses at some point Newt’s sure it’s aimed as his own tears (and he feels them, feels Minho’s tears hitting his shoulder, and it’s good and bad and unnerving and comforting at the same time).

It’s when Newt’s sobs finally died down and when he no longer feels dampness on his skin when Minho peels himself of off him.

“We need to sleep,” the boy says quietly, holding Newt’s shoulders, his eyes skimming over Newt’s face as he searches for signs of another break down.

“I guess,” Newt mumbles, a wave of shameful warmth engulfing him, but he’s too tired to feel embarrassed. And it’s Minho, and Minho would never judge him for letting built-up emotions out, not in such situation (not ever). “’m sorry. Don’t tell Tommy ‘bout this.”

Minho’s strained chuckle is probably the best thing that happened to Newt that day so he laughs, eyes watery and probably as much snot as tears on his face, but Minho still leans in and kisses him lightly, reassuringly, and for the first time at that.

“Worry not,” Minho mumbles, tugging at Newt’s hand and opening the door behind him quietly. “We’ll be shuckin’ okay.”

“I’ll make bloody sure _you_ are shuckin’ okay, Minho,” Newt responds, because it’s true and that’s what he will do, and that’s what Minho will do, not really in return just – _too_ , and because that’s what they always do and it’s the best thing they can offer to each other, really.


End file.
